Well, we said we would do it and we did it. This is the backstory to all the Jetko drama that happens in Transference. This'll stand alone just fine if you haven't read the other fic but you might be able to appreciate it more. :) But first, a few notes.

1. If you like Transference for the happy fluffy romantic Zukka stuff... that's great. But don't expect it from this story. This is arguably the unhappiest thing we've ever written. And we've written an AU that took place in a forensic mental hospital.

2. This is a Jetko fic. But... it's entirely possible that if you LIKE Jetko you won't like this fic at all. It's entirely possible that we'll get flames from Jetko fans. Just consider yourselves warned.

That said, enjoy the modern AU.

Zuko tugged his hood lower, faintly unnerved by the way the waiting room's chairs were just tall enough for his feet to not quite reach the floor. He wondered if the doctor – the shrink, he reminded himself with a flop of his stomach-- knew about the chairs, or if perhaps it was intentional. Zuko couldn't think of any good reason for this to be, but then again who could fathom the thought processes of a person who was paid to get inside your head and mess stuff around until it fit right again? The woman at the front desk had smiled politely at him and waved him to sit almost twenty minutes ago now. He'd flipped through the assortment of old magazines but he couldn't concentrate on any of the text and images of cooking mothers and smiling men applying anti-itch cream to little kids' arms. When he'd exhausted the stack of periodicals by his seat, Zuko slipped back to his feet and wandered over toward the stone fountain bubbling in the center of the room. He'd tried earlier to pretend a disinterest -- it was clearly there to distract children and he was hardly a child at fifteen years old. Now that he stepped close, however, he noticed a flicker of movement, a flash of white in the wide basin of cobbled stone. Fish? He leaned close, hands on the edge as he peered into the water from his single unswathed eye. A pair of fish, one white and one black, longer than his hand and as thick around as his forearm circled, fins flicking above the water. A strange surge of pity rose in Zuko's chest. It seemed such a small, sterile place for them...

When the receptionist cleared her throat, Zuko jumped back, torn from his trance, and laughed a little at himself. They were just fish after all. He had bigger things to worry about. Such as doing his best to convince this doctor that he was perfectly healthy so that the man could pass his findings on to Zuko's father. That was all that mattered. It was nothing new. Ozai had sent him to two therapists before this one. Neither had yielded the results he was searching for; whittled him into the young man that his father wanted him to be. So this was number three.

And it was especially important now, wasn't it? Now that his life had fallen apart. Now that he'd been expelled for something he didn't do. Now that he was in a new school where everyone was afraid of him and rumors floated about what might be hidden under the bandages. Now that his face was ruined and all personal freedom removed with no solid promise of anything ever changing. Right now was the most important time for Ozai to appear to be doing everything he could to 'assist' his wayward son. Or at least push the job off on to someone else.

"Zuko."

The deep, rattly voice drew his eyes to the door -- and this was him. His dark suit was perfectly crisp and he had just enough years on him for a few shots of gray to appear in his hair and the heavy shag at his temples, chops, jaw. He had calmly calculating eyes and a sharp look about him that wasn't like any therapist that Zuko had seen before.

"I'm Dr. Zhao. Come have a seat."

The doctor had similar taste as his father -- everything in his office was rich, dark wood and polished leather in deep reds and golds and browns. Zhao seated himself in a high-backed black leather chair and indicated the sofa for Zuko. "Your father has explained your family's situation in its entirety to me, your history, your schooling, etcetera. No need for you to explain all that to me. We'll be able to focus on your feelings and your current situation -- your plan for the future. How does that sound?" He smiled thinly.

"Just fine," Zuko answered, smiling just as thinly and a little sickly. He looked around the room, at the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelved walls. He wondered, wryly, how many of them Zhao had even read. He sat on the edge of the couch, feet flat on the floor, leaned forward with elbows on knees. "And how much of what we... talk about here... are you going to tell him about?"

Zhao's smile flickered into something a little more genuine, a little less sterile. Immediately they knew one another, tension coiling and uncoiling with question and answer. "Everything you tell me here is in the strictest confidence," he said with an air of surprise. "I've taken an oath to that effect. I may speak in generalities to your father, but the details that you reveal to me are just between you and I, Zuko. The only time I would talk with your father in specifics would be if you intended to do harm to yourself or others. Is that fair?"

Zuko knew there could be no real trust between them, not when the man was on his father's agenda. Still, he had to at least appreciate the other man being up front about his policies. "Fair," he agreed with a nod. "I don't try to kill myself or off someone else and you tell my dad I'm being a 'good boy' and cooperating with you."

"Essentially," Zhao replied.

"So." Zuko sat back, posture lazy and knees spread, a pose of indifference he'd practiced in offices in the past. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your new school," Zhao requested, sitting back with considerably more poise and steepling his fingers.

Zuko snorted, faintly, derisively. "What's to tell? It's a shitty public school. Full of lackluster teachers and failures that'll never do anything with their lives and a handful of smart kids who'll have the spirit beat out of them in time for graduation. It's a punishment. That's all. He's punishing me. And I just have to wait it out. What else?" he concluded, with a tone of finality that awaited the doctor's next topic of bland conversation.

There was a chuckle -- just barely, not quite audible, not quite determinable. "How long do you expect to wait?" Zhao wondered.

"What?" Zuko answered automatically, blinking in confusion before he realized that Zhao had not, in fact taken his hint to move on to a new subject. "As long as it takes!" he answered with a sneer, trying to disguise the faint fluster in his words. "I don't know-- when you talk to my father about today's 'session', why don't you ask him?"

"Because your father isn't in therapy with me," Zhao replied evenly. "And because he doesn't know the answer to that question any more than you do."

"Ooh," Zuko cooed, his voice as full of mockery as he could manage. "Aren't you clever? I don't know. Okay? I don't know how long he intends to keep me there. Can we move on now?"

"Of course," Zhao replied, words heavy with sincerity as he smoothed his slacks. "You control the flow of conversation here, Zuko. If there's ever something that you're not comfortable with talking about or aren't ready to face, all you have to do is say so. You're in charge here."

Zuko stared suspiciously, a little petulantly. He was grateful, and yet, he couldn't help feeling patronized. But then, that wasn't a symptom unique to this particular therapist. Zuko sighed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He fell silent then, saying nothing for a long beat. When he spoke again, he'd put on a thoughtful smirk. "So can you like... tell when someone's lying to you? Like if I sat here and told you that my father'd molested me, could you tell if I was telling the truth or not?" He met Zhao's eyes, firm and challenging.

"No, I wouldn't know either way," Zhao returned, unphased. "I would be forced to take legal action to protect you from your father if that were the case. Is that the information you would like to share with me?

Zuko stared hard at the man, said nothing for a lengthy breath, then scowled nastily. "No. My father's never touched me. He's not a creep."

"What's your relationship like with your father now?" Zhao countered, latching on the the topic that Zuko had himself brought up.

"He trusts me to look out for myself," Zuko answered easily, loftily. "And I trust him to feed, clothe and shelter me. I'm sorry, is that not as interesting as you'd hoped?"

"I don't hope for anything, Zuko," Zhao said, affecting an almost wounded tone. Then he continued, "Your father tells me you have a younger sister."

"Yeah...?" Zuko answered. "What about her?"

"Is she still at Hakan?" Zhao questioned.

Zuko bristled instantly, fingers tightening on the arm of the couch, eyes boring holes in the far wall past Zhao's head. "Yeah, she's still at Hakan," the words were clipped, bitten off one at a time. Zuko wasn't really any good at disguising his feelings, no matter how he tried. "Doing Daddy's dirty work like always, I'm sure."

"You don't care for your sister then," Zhao deduced.

"She's never done anything worth caring for," Zuko returned, matter-of-factly. "Do you have any siblings?"

"We're not here to talk about me," Zhao answered, but his tone wasn't reprimanding, rather only reminding and he even chuckled a little bit at the assessment of Zuko's sister. Then, "But, I don't. What's it like?"

"Having a sibling is like having a fork stabbed repeatedly into your ear," Zuko answered easily. "Only with my sister, that's something she'd actually do. She likes setting fires," he added, just a hint of conspiracy in his voice. "I'm pretty sure Father knows and covers up for her."

Zhao's brows arched, his mouth pursing in something like a smirk. "Sounds like she should be on my couch, rather than you," he remarked.

Zuko snorted skeptically. "Yeah well, try telling my dad that. He'd burst a blood vessel. Azula is perfect. And if he had to, he'd make murder go away to prove it." Zuko sighed and scraped a nail idly across the sofa's leather. "She only went to therapy for a month after... Mom died." He fell silent then, aware that he'd let this doctor lure him into giving up a lot more information than he'd intended. Well, maybe he'd tell Ozai they were 'making progress'.

"Perhaps she wasn't as close to your mother as you were," Zhao offered, sounding almost sympathetic.

"Or maybe," Zuko countered, "She hated therapists more that I do and knew exactly what they wanted to hear to let her off the hook." He paused, eyes fixing on the man's hideous paisley tie. "I don't want to talk about my mother."

"All right," Zhao placated. "Is there anything specific that you would like to talk about?"

"Not really," Zuko answered, which wasn't particularly true, but then again he couldn't think of anything he wanted to talk about this Doctor Zhao. "Did you know my father before he sent me here?"

"I don't know your father well," Zhao replied, seeming willing to allow Zuko this question as it related to him. "More acquaintances -- a friend of a friend. I hadn't spoken to Ozai for several years before he contacted me about you." He looked at Zuko as though to say, 'Is that satisfactory?'

"I guess that makes sense," Zuko shrugged. "Since you're his third choice."

"Mmm," Zhao rumbled, a throaty sound. "Your father did express his displeasure at the results of you previous therapists. Sometimes it just takes... the... right fit."

"And you think that's you?" Zuko raised his brow, turned to face the man fully, pushed back his hood, offered up a cocky smirk. "I'll tell you what. You tell my dad that you can definitely 'help' me and I'll keep coming back so you can get his money."

When Zhao laughed it was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "My boy, that's what I was going to do anyway," he said, amused. "Well, I think this is enough for our first day, what do you think?"

What Zuko thought was that this doctor was a cocky asshole, but it hardly mattered because he already knew he'd be back again next week.

Two months ago everyone had been nice. They'd coddled him and pretended to understand what he was going through. They'd assured him that although starting at a new school had its challenges, there were plenty of things to be positive about and after all, Arbor was the best public school in the area, highly rated on all counts, with the best teachers and plenty of extracurricular activities. The school counselor had encouraged him to visit if he needed to talk, but also expressed an annoyingly cheerful exuberance while she patted him on the shoulder and told him she was sure he'd make plenty of friends once he'd settled in.

But it was two months later, and the novelty of him being new and moldable had worn off. The counselor had more or less given up on reminding him of her office hours and the cadre of wonderful friends she'd predicted was currently composed of a tuft of dry grass and a collection of spider webs behind the bleachers on the football field. Dirt and pill bugs, after all, didn't look at you funny or ask why half your face was swathed in gauze.

He rolled a small blue painkiller between two fingers and wondered how much the wild-eyed potheads who hung out in the G wing would pay him for it.

"Fuckers..." The growled word floated down to his ears from above, accompanied by the thunk of sneakers on the planks overhead. He heard the flick of a lighter, the inhale of breath and the creak of wood as someone settled in directly over his head. Moments later, ash was drifting down, dotting his pale face and paler bandages.

Zuko frowned, huffing and brushing the warm ash from his nose, growling out his irritation before he could stop to weigh the disadvantages of revealing his hiding place. "Hey, watch it, asshole!"

There was a pause before a quizzically scowling face appeared between the spaces in the planks. "Che," the boy from above scoffed. "Not my fault you're skulking under the bleachers. Fuck off." He flicked his cigarette directly over Zuko's head and sat back up.

Zuko scowled and stepped back, swatting at the floating ash and feeling his face heat with anger. "You're not even supposed to be smoking," he snapped, eyes scanning the ground for a rock or something else to throw at the guy if he tried anything. He recognized him now. Jet was a self-absorbed Sophomore who fancied himself a Senior and was well known as the school's resident troublemaker. Still, rumor said he tended to stick up for kids that were younger and smaller than him and he was absurdly popular with girls who liked bad boys. "Find your own bleachers."

"You're not supposed to act like an emo pussy, but that doesn't seem to be stopping you," Jet shot back and Zuko heard the thump as he kicked his sneakers up on the benches.

"Well--" Zuko began and paused, frowning at how ridiculous it was to be shouting up through the slats between bleachers., He stamped out from under his hiding spot and began climbing the benches, fists clenched and eyes on the other kid. "Well this is the great f-fuckin' prestigious Arbor High where everyone's supposed to be happy and smart, so what's a pothead loser asshole like you doing here?"

Jet didn't even offer him the respect of standing to meet his challenge. Lounging back with feet kicked up, he peered up at Zuko from beneath his dramatic brows, cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth. "You think cause I smoke I'm not twice as smart as you?" He stretched and stood slowly, casually approaching Zuko to lean in close and breathe smoke into his face. "I own this school."

It was to Zuko's credit that he, at least, managed not to cough as the cloud of acrid smoke wafted past his cheeks and clung to his hair. "No wonder it's such a cesspool then," he sneered.

"We were doing fine until nancy-assed whiny rich boys started showing up," Jet shot back, eyes narrowed.

"Wow, I guess that makes me pretty awesome then, if it only took me two months to ruin your precious play-house kingdom," Zuko snapped, gesturing widely at the empty football field.

Teeth gripped at the cigarette, bared in irritation. "Watch it, prick, or you'll need a bandage for the other side of your face too."

"Is that the best you can do?" Zuko wondered, taking the risk of advancing another step. "I thought you said you were twice as smart as me?"

Jet closed the last bit of space between them with a sharp jab to Zuko's chest. "Obviously I am if you're actually thinking about crossing me," he growled, pushed Zuko back with the two fingers against his breastplate. "I'll make your life hell, kid."

With the first poke, Zuko's eyes widened, then narrowed, angry and dangerous. But when the other boy pushed him a second time, fingertips digging into his chest, Zuko snarled and leapt at him. "Don't you fucking touch me!" he snapped, shoving hard at Jet's middle with a strength that was surprising given his thin frame and the half a head of height Jet had on him.

Surprise was evident on the other boy's face, caught off guard by the strength and vehemence from the transfer student who until that moment had seemed nothing but weak and pathetic. Jet stumbled and his foot slipped, missing the edge of the bleacher, his eyes comically wide as he teetered back and then tripped. It was ten feet to the dusty ground and the next thing he knew was the smell of dust clouding around him and shooting pain.

"Ah--FUCK," Jet snarled, doubling in around the searing pain in the arm he clutched to his chest.

Half a second later, Zuko's feet hit the ground beside him, and he was kneeling, leaning over Jet's shaking form, hands hovering as though suddenly afraid to touch him. "Oh my god, Jet. Are you okay?"

"Nnnnggh." The would-be-bully snarled through his teeth, face screwed up in pain as he valiantly attempted not to writhe in pain. "It--" He tried to move his hand only to have a wave of nausea sweep over him. "I think it's broken," he hissed.

"Fuck," Zuko breathed and wrung his hands through his choppy black hair. "Fuck. Um. Okay. Can you sit up?" He reached out, ever so tentatively brushing Jet's shoulder with the very tips of his fingers.

Jet sucked in a few breaths, attempting to steady himself and swallow down the pain. "Yeah," he finally ground out and pulled a crunch to sit up. "I'm okay."

Zuko heaved a little sigh of relief, though Jet still looked green enough in the face that he didn't seem to be past the risk of passing out. "O-okay good. Um." He stood quickly, glancing around, half in the hope that there was someone else nearby who could help, and half in the fear that there was someone nearby who had seen what happened. Luckily and unluckily the field was still empty. "Okay, if you can stand up, I-- I'll help you get to the nurse's office, okay?"

"Ghn," was Jet's response, a low sound in his throat that was decidedly noncommittal. He did let Zuko help him to his feet though, still holding his throbbing wrist to his chest. "You don't have to," he growled, but it wasn't an angry voice, just a strained one.

"It's fine," Zuko assured him quickly, his stomach doing fearful flip-flops. "It's my fault so..." Besides, Zuko reminded himself, if his father were to get wind of this... he paled at the thought, suddenly feeling quite as ill as Jet looked. "I'll go with you."

Jet didn't protest further but only clenched his teeth tight, letting Zuko walk with him across the campus. He kept his game face well, though the sight of those two particular boys walking together earned approximately the same number of curious glances as if Jet had run through the grounds crying hysterically.

The nurse glanced up with a frown as the two entered her office. "What's this, boys?"

Zuko swallowed hard, took a breath and glanced briefly at Jet before turning to the nurse. "We think his wrist might be broken," Zuko began, flushing faintly with shame while he stared at the floor. "Um, see--"

"I fell," Jet interrupted. "Off the bleachers. Tripped. I must have landed on it, it hurts like a bitch."

"All right, all right enough of that language... come sit down, Jet. You know the routine."

Zuko blinked, swallowed and clutched faintly at his flopping stomach. Was Jet... going to lie? If the other boy kept the truth a secret, then things might be okay. As long as his father didn't find out he'd broken someone's wrist... It was with a numb sort of relief and lingering suspicion that he fell into one of the chairs in the nurse's office, watching as Jet held out his arm, wincing visibly when the nurse took his hand.

Some minutes later with inspection, the nurse sighed. "Looks like we're going to need to get you to the hospital, this is out of my jurisdiction. I'm going to have to call your guardian, Jet."

He grimaced in response. "Can't I just drive myself?"

"No."

"Can he?" Jet jerked his head at Zuko sitting near the door.

"No!" The nurse rolled her eyes and looked over at the other boy. "You can go back to class, Zuko. Thank you for helping Jet here."

Zuko bit his lip, glanced between the nurse and Jet who now sported a decidedly sour expression. "A-are you sure you don't need me for anything else?" he asked, though whether he meant the woman or the boy wasn't clear. He couldn't quite believe it was that simple, that he had avoided punishment for something that was clearly a huge lapse in judgment on his part.

"It's cool." Jet caught his eye across the room, held it significantly. "I'll see you later."

Zuko swallowed hard, tore his nervous gaze away from Jet's pained face and slipped out of the room.